


The gloves are off....

by aljohnson



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst, F/M, Religion, Soul mate fic, poor rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aljohnson/pseuds/aljohnson
Summary: My contribution to the 'soul mate' challenge of January 2017.





	

**Author's Note:**

> “This is the scene of a crime”  
> “Well lucky for you, I’m wearing gloves”

They marked out the person who was right for you. They were the first words you would say to each other, when you saw each other; that was definite; the rules were very clear. You would definitely meet your soul mate – assuming you were pure of heart and behaved in the manner prescribed. 

If you were a catholic, so was your soul mate. If a protestant, the same. Everyone had a mark – everyone.

When it had been discovered that occasionally, rarely, someone did not, the conclusion was that such people were wanton sinners – undeserving of finding their ‘other half’ who would complete them. 

You weren’t born with the words; they appeared later. That was why you had to be polite, and quiet; reserved and well-behaved. No woman wanted the condemnation which came with not developing a mark.

After The War, stances had subtly shifted. The words might not be exact. Or they might be in your first conversation, rather than the exact first words. And so if the words were exact, or the first words, then consideration could even be given to the possibility that if, say, you were a catholic, and they were a protestant, then, even so, it might really be a soul mate match, and not be subject to condemnation.

After The War, women without marks could be viewed sympathetically – the assumption being that their match had fallen at The Front, and that the woman had been spared the pain of seeing words she’d never hear spoken. 

She was coming to the conclusion that it was all nonsense. Sometimes, she thought about it in stronger terms than that. She’d been so sure; this time. Mind you, she mused, she’d been so sure when she was younger too...

***************************

“This is the scene of a crime…”

“Well luckily for you, I’m wearing gloves.”

“This is no place for a young lady, Miss.”

“My father’s a police officer, Constable.” He was cute, she thought. New, definitely; she could always tell. 

“Oh.” She found out later that he hadn’t known what to do. ‘No-one past this point’, he’d been told. And apparently, he’d been thunderstruck with quite how pretty he thought she was.

“Who’s your father?”

“Detective Inspector George Sanderson. I’ve brought his lunch.” She held up the basket between them.

She watched him as he swallowed. Nervously, she thought. He’d obviously just worked out that she was the boss’ daughter. She shifted the basket, clasping it in both hands in front of her. A Constable. Well. Promotion through the ranks was a commendable way to advance. 

“Those words…” he stuttered.  
“I think you might be…” she hesitated as they spoke over each other.

“Yes.” He seemed to agree.

“What do we do now?” they blurted out in unison.

****************************

Somehow, it hadn’t been enough. 

Against everything she had ever been taught; every treatise she had been led to believe, it had not been enough. 

By the time they were both sitting, silently, in an austere and intimidating court room, listening to their barristers submissions as their solicitors scribbled furiously, Rosie was having doubts about everything she’d ever believed about soul mates.

******************

It had been going on for a while; if she was honest. Since before even that awful day in the courtroom; if she was honest. Since before she’d seen the solicitor and asked him to issue divorce proceedings; if she was entirely honest. But it hadn’t been until the awfulness with her father that she had known. Or had thought she had…

**********************

“This is a crime scene…” Sidney had said, as she’d ushered him up the front steps of her father’s Hawthorn residence and rooted in her handbag for the key. 

“Well luckily for you, I’m wearing gloves,” she’d said. Then she’d winked at him and pecked him on the cheek. He’d stayed outside, talking to one of the constables on duty.

When she’d got undressed for bed that night and noticed the words, she’d smiled. And when Sidney himself had remarked on it the next morning, they had both laughed. 

“Well that’s it then,” he’d smirked, “we’ll just have to get married.”

At the time she’d thought it had been everything it should have been: warm; humorous; pragmatic, from a man prepared to be involved with a divorcee. And he was nice. Respectable. On all the right boards. Wealthy. And she had hope, renewed now, for the possibility of children. 'Very different, the second time around' she'd said to Jack, who looked so genuinely pleased for her that it made her feelings of anger towards him fade.

**************************

The betrayal of her words had come, of course, from her father. He’d sold her out after barely a moment's thought. Just one more part of Sidney's plan to bind her, and her father, to his schemes.

She cried when she heard. Even Jack’s warm arms were unable to console her that night. It turned out, Sidney’s ‘soul mate’ mark - the final confirmation she’d needed that it wasn’t all hokum, that it was still true, that there was still someone for her, that she could hope and dream - was a lie. 

It was a tattoo - burnt into his unmarked skin in a grubby back room off Little Lon.


End file.
